


To Lose A Child

by aliitvodeson



Series: The Scariest Things [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Father!Watson, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Kidnapping, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's return, single parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after The Reichenbach Fall, John Watson is a single father still mourning his dead wife. Rising a baby girl, managing a clinic, and helping out Scotland Yard have all taken a toll on the former soldier. He's not the same man. But he's still John Watson, and he's still Sherlock Holmes's heart.<br/>"I promised you once, remember, Sherlock?  I will burn the heart out of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lose A Child

John Watson taps his finger against the counter, watching a lone cab drive slowly past the block of flats. The window is clear, for once. The day is already looking to be unbearably hot, and it's only 4 am. He waits for the kettle to boil, the tea leaves already measured out and waiting in the mug. Mary's silent upstairs. For once, she's sleeping later than him. Maybe this means he'll be able to get through the day without a nap, for once.  
His mobile buzzes from it's charging station next to the toaster. He slides it over to him without having to look. He's used to such interruptions while he waits for the kettle. Mycroft checking in on him, Lestrade asking for help on a case, the babysitter ensuring that he's still dropping Mary off for the day.  
Hello Johnny boy  
John stared at the screen of his mobile. There was no name to the number, just another misplaced text message. He should just delete it and move on with his day. He had a meeting with at the clinic he needed to get ready for, and he had to drop Mary off at the babysitter's. He didn't have time to stress over a wrong number.  
Only.....  
Only Moriarty ever called him Johnny boy. Even Harry had never, in her entire life, called him Johnny. Just the consulting criminal. Just the bastard who'd killed Sherlock and nearly ruined John's life. Just the dead bastard. It was too much a coincidence. On the third anniversary of Sherlock's murder (because John would always think of it as murder, never suicide, never Sherlock jumping, always Sherlock being pushed), he would receive a text with that dreaded nickname.  
Want to get together?  
Even as John stared at it, the phone went off again with a soft pling.  
Just for old time's sakes  
John felt the bile rising in his throat. This was so sick bastard's idea of a joke. He was tempted to hurl the mobile across the room, to smash the screen in and destroy it. But he couldn't. It was the only object he could stand to see on a daily basis that connected him to Sherlock. The very object that had revealed so much about him that first day at Bart's. He couldn't let it go.  
By the way, I adore your little girl  
Such a cute baby  
John's stomach dropped away.

Greg Lestrade mumbled as his hand flailed about, searching for the phone. Tender hands pushed on his shoulders, indicating he should lie back on the mattress. "Hush." His wife whispered. "I've got it." He closed his eyes as the ringing stopped. "Hello?" A pause. "Greg? It's John." Her voice was steady but Greg could pick out the small inflections that meant she was worried by what was on the other end of the phone line.  
"Greg! Greg, he's got her. He's taken her!" John was breathless and worried. Greg had never heard the ex-soldier speak in such a tone. There was helplessness contained in every single one of those words, pain that had never been in that strong voice in all the time Greg had known him. "He's...he took her."  
"Slow down John. Tell me everything. Who's taken her?" Greg's mind race. With John, there was only one 'her' that could have been taken. Mary. "What happened?" He blinked rapidly as the bright lights came on, but was grateful for the illumination as he jumped out of bed, the phone still pressed to his ear.  
Dinah was already holding out his undershirt, eyes wide and worried, but silent. He slides it over his head with practiced ease. "John, talk to me."  
"He's back. He's back Greg. And he took her."  
"Who’s back?"  
And John says the name and Greg can't believe him but he knows that it's the only answer and it makes perfect sense even as he doesn't want to believe it.  
"Moriarty."

Mycroft Holmes has been up for hours, pacing a dent in the soft plushness of his parlor carpet. His face, to anyone who didn’t know him intimately, would think he was thinking about things that bored him, that the uncaring on his face was real and not a mask. In truth, he was frightened. He had to face John sometime soon, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. For the first time since his brother had left England to take down Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes feared that it had all been in vain.  
His mobile gave off a soft ping that indicated an incoming text message. He crossed the room and grabbed the mobile. His face, if possible, became even paler when he read the text.  
Baby brother was fun, but I'm bored now. Time for a new playmate -JM  
Mycroft was already replying, fingers flying across the keyboard.  
If you hurt the girl, I will destroy you. -M. Holmes  
He hit send and then returned to pacing. He'd known about the kidnapping before John had. Moriarty had left the CCT cameras around the flat running, as though he wanted to be seen. Knowing the man that was most likely true. What was a genius without an audience?  
The mobile pings again. This time, he's ready for the incoming message and doesn't give a visible reaction to the words.  
I don't want to hurt her. I want to bring her up. My way. She'll be my daughter - JM  
Though England's "ice man" made no outward reaction, inside he was shaking. Mary was only 22 months old. If Moriarty had her, was able to raise her himself from such a young age, what would she become?  
Don't play games with me or with the child. She is John's daughter, not yours. -M. Holmes  
But she's so cute. Can't I keep her? -JM  
You are aware that John will not simply let you keep Mary. He will come for you. - M. Holmes  
That would be the part of the plan, ice boy - JM  
And Mycroft just started at his phone, all the breath seeming to leave his body.

John’s phone buzzed again as he let the door to his flat building slam close. He pulled it out, hand shaking.  
Baker street Johnny boy. Come and play, if you dare -JM  
And then John’s running, running through the streets, the mobile in his hand forgotten as he runs, pushing past pedestrians without caring. Baker street never seemed so far away, as he ran out into the middle of traffic without stopping, dodging automobiles without even having to think about them.  
He finally turned the corner onto Baker street, barrelling around the curve of the block of flats. There! He could see the dark blue door, the red banner of Speedy’s cafe behind it. He ran faster, he was so close. Moriarty had Mary here, he could feel it.  
Someone grab hold of his jacket and he went falling, down to the ground in a heap of forward motion halted suddenly. He found himself looking up at Greg’s morning shadow and annoyed eyes.  
“You idiot! You absolute idiot! Why didn’t you call me?”  
“Get off me!” John found himself shoving Greg’s hands away, scrambling backwards and upwards. “He’s got Mary, in there!”  
“I know John. And you have to listen to me.” Greg’s voice was oddly calm, the forced calm he used when dealing with Sally or Anderson. “You can’t go in there right now.”  
“What do you mean, can’t go in there! Greg, he has my daughter!”  
“I know.” When John started towards the door again, Greg wrapped two hands around his arm. “It’s being handled John, just be patient.”  
“Being handled? Being handled!” John was aware people were staring at them, that a circle had formed around their little spectacle, but he didn’t care. Mary was in there, in the old flat, with Moriarty. He had to save her. “I can handle James Moriarty!”  
“John, listen to me.” Greg grabbed John’s face between his hands. “Moriarty set this up as a trap. A trap for you.”  
“Well then I’m damn well walking into it.”  
“John, no!”  
And then, as John was pulling out of Greg’s grasp and Greg was fighting to hold him in place, a familiar black car pulled up to the curb. The door opens as John’s eye fix upon it, and Mycroft steps out. “Morning John, Detective. I do hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”  
“Not really.” John snarls through gritted teeth. “Just trying to get my daughter back from Moriarty.”  
“I know John. He, well, taunted me as well. I, in turn, sent my best agent hear, while also contacting Detective Lestrade to delay you.”  
“Delay me? Am I allowed to ask why, or is that classified?” The only thing preventing John from swinging at Mycroft was Greg’s rather formidable hold on his arms.  
“I thought it best if Moriarty’s trap was sprung by someone he would not be expecting. He is expecting you. I gave him someone more prepared to deal with him.” Mycroft smiled slightly, as if daring John to ask him further questions.  
While John sputtered for words, Mycroft reached into his pocket, glanced at his mobile, and then sighed. “Tell me that it’s been taken care of.” He angled his body away from John and Greg as he spoke, though he still spoke in his normal tone of voice. “Good.” A pause. “I’ll send him right up.” Another pause. “Of course. Alone. I understand. And thank you.” And, still with his mobile in his hand, he turned back to the other pair. “Greg, you can release John. John,” he raised his eyebrows in a gesture that could be taken as nothing else but go ahead, “do try to be rational.”

John pushed open the door to flat 221B. Nothing seemed to have changed in the three years since Sherlock’s death. The chairs were in their same spot by the first place, the curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze coming through the window. Even the consulting detective was lounging on the couch, his hair the same...  
Sherlock was sitting on the couch. Sherlock bloody Holmes was sitting on the couch in 221B, his arms wrapped around a blanket bundle.  
“Here John. I’m pretty sure this is your daughter, as she has your eyes and your ability to sleep through the most abnormal racket.” He stood up, and held out the bundle to John, who was frozen in the doorway. He could see Mary’s pale blond curls peeking out from the blanket folds.  
Sherlock had to come all the way across the room before John reached to take his daughter back. His legs were stuck in place, but at least his arms still seemed to be working, he thought as he closed them around Mary. He couldn’t say anything, just looked back and forth between the two of them, his daughter’s face locked in peaceful sleep, and Sherlock’s way too alive body.  
Sherlock was wearing a suit, as usual, and now he adjusted the sleeves. He looked behind John as footsteps came up the stairs. “Ah, Lestrade. I should have expected my brother to send you. There’s a body in the upstairs bedroom, would you be so kind as to deal with it?”  
“You’re alive.” Greg and John said at the same time.  
Sherlock smiled with only half his mouth. “Obviously.”


End file.
